


a matter of love (lost?)

by cloudburst



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: M/M, basically 2nd person pov introspection, drabble af, wanted to get back in the groove of writing, wrote this in 5 minutes leave me alone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 11:23:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12680886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudburst/pseuds/cloudburst
Summary: But when you kiss him, breath sticking in your throat like syrup, a garden blooms once-more.





	a matter of love (lost?)

**Author's Note:**

> a drabble af

For you it has always been a matter of love and love lost—arrow mere inches from the target, a direct hit but aim not enough to strike true. You have always loved like the hesitant, crashing waves of low tide, narrowly missing the shore—have always loved based upon the rigid nature of your mother's past words, cracked lips pouring inked venom to paper, writing for you to take note of. Always, you have been afraid; you couldn't lose, _cannot lose_ even now the ones you love most: Izzy, with her crackling smile like fire, Jace, with his stubborn attitude as stone, and Max, his cunning a trait you've always cherished. 

It was not until the burned paper that your mother's words had fallen upon was disintegrated that you could open your heart to more—the green venom unintentionally spewed from Maryse's lips vacating your ribcage, making way for a garden to take root—dirt as soil when he calls you the "pretty one." A flower blooms as you return his smile.

As he asks you to get drinks—there are weeds taking root among the flowers, growing throughout your ribcage into the cavity of your chest. When he speaks, it's as if they've wrapped around your heart, constricting, pulling you into a state of blossom. When you are around him, your ribs fill with beds of roses—as you disregard the thorns. You have never felt this way.

And you have never felt the death of a weed inside of you, for that is all Magnus was, but now know the feeling that must be akin to death as you propose to Lydia. Your abdomen refills with stone and venom, the occasional cracks in your composure stemming from the division in your ribcage. The garden will one day be entirely destroyed, but until then, you ignore the aching feeling in your chest. 

His coming to your wedding made that difficult—impossible to ignore the star field in your eyes as he walks to you, all sugar and honey and things forbidden to you as the eldest Lightwood. But when you kiss him, breath sticking in your throat like syrup, a garden blooms once-more. Yet this time, there are no thorns.


End file.
